


Al Fine

by Lissette Lackey (Muffintine)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Italian Mafia, Janitor - Freeform, M/M, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:25:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muffintine/pseuds/Lissette%20Lackey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pietro Cavalcante, head of the notorious Cavalcante Family and a part of the Italian Costa Nostra, has only one weakness: Flowers. John Flowers, to be exact; a simple janitor who works at the speakeasy Pietro often frequents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Al Fine

Pietro Cavalcante relaxes into the warm, velvet upholstery of his booth, thick, well-tanned fingers swirling his expensive wine absently. He tilts his head to the right, scanning the hazy, smoke filled speakeasy as he brings the rim of his glass to his lips. He nurses his wine slowly, inhaling through his nose. The wine's bitter scent lingers as it slides past his tongue, the taste amicable enough. Jazz plays softly in the background, the sound melancholic. The showgirl of the night's voice is deep and raspy, adding a darker, more tempting edge to the club's ambiance.

The Dove's Wing is a known haunt for the Cavalcante family. It's a classy little joint, one of Pietro's favorites, really; the owner is discreet, which is as convenient as it is valuable. If he also so happens to be one of the Cavalcante Family's biggest buyers of bootleg alcohol then, well, what's friends amongst business partners? Pietro allows himself another sip of wine before he sets the glass down on the mahogany tabletop. It's exactly eleven o'clock, which means who he's expecting should be arriving soon. He glances to the club's back entrance and smiles, pleased when he sees three _soldatos_ and his favorite _capo_ —his cousin, Sergio—have finally deigned to show themselves.

Pietro beckons them over. " _Buona sera_ , Sergio," Pietro greets, tone sanguine as he gestures for his cousin to sit across from him. "Please, sit. I assume you have good news for me?"

Sergio smirks, the handsome quirk of lips accenting the angular shape of his jaw. He slides into the booth as soon as Pietro gestures for him to do so. "Yeah, Boss," he says, "I got good news for ya."

"Well?" Pietro asks with a cocked brow.

Sergio leans back, demeanor casual. "Found that _porco cane_ , the filthy little rat, before his nice police friends could cart him off to some sort of safe house," he says, crooked smile a trite too cocky.

"Hmm," Pietro hums, appearing thoughtful. "And where is he now?"

Sergio gestures over his shoulder. "Out back," he says. "We already did a number on 'im, but if you wanna go at 'im yourself, just say the word, Boss."

Pietro considers that. The kid's only eighteen. Stupid, perhaps, but he broke the sacred _omertà_ , the code of silence. To Pietro, acting head of the Cavalcante Family, that's an unforgivable crime. _Family above all_ , that's what his family is taught from childhood; what Mario should have stood for. Kid or not, he has desecrated all that the Cavalcante name stands for. Death is a befitting punishment.

Pietro stands suddenly, fixing the lapels on his jacket and brushing back a loose strand of his coffee colored hair. He fixes a sharp, painfully bright green gaze on Sergio. "Take me to him," he orders.

Sergio nods, grinning. "Sure thing, Boss," he whistles, getting to his feet easily. "This way." He leads Pietro across the low lighted club and out the back entrance, into the grimy back alley. Two more _soldatos_ are waiting for them there, a pathetic lump held between them.

Mario's a mess, his face beaten black and blue; he's obviously suffered several broken bones as well, but he's still breathing. Pietro methodically takes off his white gloves and shoves them into his jacket pocket. He then crouches down in front of Mario, expression calm and considering. "Do you know why we call your kind rats?" Pietro inquires, reaching forward to roughly grasp Mario's chin. "Because you belong in the gutter, just like all other vermin." He tilts Mario's chin up, forcing the teen to look Pietro dead in the eye. "I gave you a family, a home. Did I not take care of you? Feed you? Give you work? And yet you repay me by running to the _policia_ with your tail tucked between your legs?"

"I… m… sor… ry," Mario sobs, blood coating his lips as he coughs, struggling to breathe.

Pietro's face remains devoid of emotion as he stands, feet pivoting nosily against the gravel as he turns to Sergio and says, "Put him on ice for a while, and then burn him."

Sergio nods, looking far too delighted. He's always been a bit of a sadist and it should bother Pietro, but it doesn't. A lot of things should bother Pietro, but they don't. As the two _soldatos_ who hold Mario captive hoist him up to his feet, he starts to cry, fat, salty tears rolling down his dirty cheeks. He doesn't beg for his life, knows it's useless, and Pietro respects him for that. At least this one will die with his dignity, if not his honor. "Go," Pietro tells Sergio. "Tell the rest of the family I'm not to be bothered for the remainder of the night."

"Sure, Boss," Sergio says, though his mouth curls upwards into a sly grin. "Got one of your _zoccolas_ , your slutty women comin' by, eh?"

Pietro pauses. "Something like that."

"Nah, Boss, don't be like that. She's gotta be a pretty lass if she gets to suck your _cazzo_ ," Sergio says, words vulgar, though nothing new.

"Just go, Sergio. I will see you tomorrow," Pietro says, leaving no room for argument.

Sergio frowns, but nods. "Right. _Buona notte_ , Boss."

" _Buona notte_ ," Pietro says after him, watching Sergio and his five _soldatos_ disappear into the night, hauling Mario's crippled body with them.

Pietro sighs heavily, fetches his white gloves from his front jacket pocket and slips them back on with easy familiarity. He walks back into the club, inhales the thick smoke and saunters over to his booth, still empty save for his half-full wine glass. He spends the rest of the night downing glass after glass until he's dutifully buzzed, head swimming with all kinds of terrible ideas.

Soon enough, all the patrons leave, the lights dim, and Pietro's left sitting by himself in near darkness, save for the stage lights. An odd quietness descends upon club; it stretches on until the creak of a door shatters it. Pietro looks up from his wine and finds who he's been waiting for shuffling across the stage.

"Oh," John Flowers says, looking entirely too delectable in his plain work clothes, mop gripped tightly in his hand. His short, sun-kissed locks are tousled into attractive disarray, highlighting his strong jawline and bringing out his narrow, warm brown eyes. "You're here."

Pietro leans back into the velvet of his booth, ripping his eyes away from John's toned, lean body to stare up at the ceiling planks. "I'm always here," he says, just loud enough for John to hear.

John hops down off the stage, bringing his mop with him. He stalks lethargically towards Pietro and stops before him. He firmly plants the mop on the floor and lean on it, arms crossed. "You're drunk," he accuses.

"How observant of you," Pietro slurs, Italian accent suddenly thick as he angles his head to stare shamelessly at the small opening in John's shirt, admiring the patch of exposed skin. "You look good," he says, letting his eyes travel brazenly down to John's groin. "Really good."

There's a moment where John doesn't say anything, merely stares at Pietro, gaze unreadable. "Do I?" he murmurs as he steps closer, propping the mop up against the booth's table.

"Yes," Pietro breathes. "You always look good."

"Hm, is that so," John says lowly, reaching forward to cradle Pietro's face in his hand. His fingers are hot, and they leave streaks of searing warmth as he traces his them along the curve of Pietro's jaw.

Pietro leans into the caress, far more drunk than he realized. He shouldn't be doing this. It's wrong. But, he supposes, God will punish him for his sins when he dies; for all the lives his taken, for all the men he's fucked and been fucked by.

But John...

John's _different_ ; beautiful. Pietro wants him like an old ache, an all-encompassing soreness that seizes his heart and makes it hard for him to breathe. He wants what he can never have; domesticity, loving touches, a place for the man he loves in his family, in his terribly dark and wretched world.

John's fingertips slip into Pietro's hair, touch gentle, not at all hesitant, but not entirely sexual either. "You said we couldn't do this anymore."

"We can't," Pietro whispers helplessly. "We shouldn't."

"Then why are you here?" John asks, eyes hard.

Pietro looks up, meeting John's gaze head on. "Because I want to get fucked," he says crassly. "And I want you to do it, _amato_."

John's face twists, pained restraint etched into the crease and furrow of his brow. "Don't call me that," he says lowly. "Not unless you mean it."

Moving far quicker than a man in his drunken state should, Pietro fists his hands into John's shirt and yanks him down towards him. Their mouths collide with force, teeth clacking as lips press haphazardly together. Pietro opens his mouth, begging for more, tongue searching out John's. John returns the kiss with vigor, biting at Pietro's lower lip and sucking harshly. His hands slide to knot in Pietro's hair, grip not quite painful. As they pull back, breath harsh, John's lust laden eyes spell trouble. "You can't take this back," he rasps. "I won't let you."

Pietro laughs. "Won't let me?" he muses. "I could have you killed."

John smiles, slow and warm. "There are worst things than death.'

"Yeah?" Pietro whispers, hot breath ghosting against John's lips. "Like what?"

"Like having to watch you day in and day out," John says against Pietro's ear, "and not being able to touch you, claim you in front of all those other men you flaunt yourself in front of."

Pietro's eyes darken. "Oh? And you don't flaunt yourself?" he challenges, hands deftly skating up the hard pane of John's abs, thick fingers tracing each and every muscle.

"No one looks at me," John replies dangerously, "Except you."

"Except me," Pietro agrees with a growl, leaning in to claim another rough kiss. As he pulls away he says, eyes hooded, "Suck me off, _amato_."

"If I don't," John says, "will you have me gutted, gunned down in a back alley?"

"Oh yes," Pietro breathes, the lower part of him waking up slowly, hardening to throb against his slacks. He pushes John back and stands up, moving towards him with dark intent. "But you would never refuse me," he murmurs, starting in on John's buttons. "Not really."

"Confident," John husks back, watching Pietro with rapt attention as he undresses him with careful, strong hands. Once his shirt is off, he returns the favor, stripping Pietro of his jacket and undershirt with swift skill. He cages Pietro up against the table and pins him there with his hips; his own hardness presses painfully against Pietro's.

"You always do as I say," Pietro hums fondly. "Eventually."

"Eventually," John agrees, sliding to his knees.

He unfastens Pietro's slacks with practiced ease, allowing Pietro's cock to fall out, hard and aching for him. John shoves Pietro's slacks down to his knees and gives one light, teasing tug. Pietro's breath stutters, his hips bucking involuntarily. " _Merda_ ," he curses in Italian. "Keep going."

John laughs softly against Pietro's cock, his breath causing Pietro to shiver, hands gripping the mahogany tabletop ever tighter. John's hand slides along the length of Pietro one more time, ending up at his balls, where they rest, touch light. John lowers his mouth then, taking Pietro into his mouth tortuously slow. Pietro feels the wetness, the hotness of John's mouth enveloping him, expert tongue swirling along the head of his cock. Without a hint of teeth, John bobs his head up and down, lips tightening and loosening to cause maddening friction. He pulls off slightly, tongue digging into the slit of Pietro's dick as John drags his mouth down, teeth just barley scraping the shaft.

" _Merda_ ," Pietro curses again, hands flying forward to tangle in John's blonde hair, tugging, _needing_. "Yes, yes, please, John, _amato_ , _amato_."

Pietro _feels_ John smile around his cock, humming in the back of his throat as he takes Pietro _deeper_. Pietro throws his head back, breaths uneven and eyes closed as he loses himself in the pleasure of John's mouth, John's tongue, John's hands. "I'm gonna _sborra_ , gonna come," he rasps shakily, senses overloading.

John pulls off with a pop, and Pietro groans pitifully.

"Not yet," John says, throat raw and abused. "Don't you dare."

Too dazed to respond, Pietro watches lazily as John fetches something from his pocket. Oil, he realizes belatedly. He smiles languidly. "You gonna fuck me?" he asks. Then, in Italian, he adds, " _Voglio che mi scopi_."

John chuckles. "You know I don't speak Italian."

"Shame," Pietro murmurs as he pulls himself up onto the table, depositing his bare ass there, hard cock resting rigidly against his thigh. "I said I want you to fuck me."

"Such a dirty mouth," John says, taking two steps forward to position himself between Pietro's thighs.

"No more dirty than yours," Pietro returns, thoroughly pleased despite himself.

John kisses him suddenly. It's a slow kiss, full of things neither of them can say; affection that will never be allowed in the light of day. John worries gently at Pietro's lips, kiss wet and sloppy, but so full of raw feeling it makes Pietro's heart pick up in tempo. He's never felt like this with anyone. His hand flies up to rest in the curve of John's neck without his permission, touch gentle, caring— _needy_. As John continues to kiss him, he nudges Pietro's legs apart, slicks up his fingers, and presses the first digit in. Pietro gasps into John's mouth, the burn familiar, if unpleasant at the start.

"Go easy on me, _amato_ ," Pietro whispers against John's lips. "It's been awhile."

"Yeah," John agrees. "It's been awhile for me too." He inserts another finger as he moves to suck at the hollow of Pietro's throat, mouth worrying a large hickey into his skin.

Pietro's breath hitches as John moves his fingers in and out of him, rhythm slow and easy. He scissors his fingers, stretching him aptly. It's an agonizing sort of torture, waiting to be ready. And, as John works him open, he glances down at John's own throbbing arousal, sighing with anticipation. John isn't overly long, the average six inches, but he's _thick_. "Hurry up," Pietro demands impatiently. "I'm— _ng_ —ready."

John doesn't look as if he's going to argue. "Alright," he says gently, slicking up his dick and pressing it against Pietro's entrance. He hoists Pietro up, hooks his arms around his torso, and looks him right in the eye as he pushes his cock in, pace measured and steady. Pietro winces at first, willing his body to grow accustomed to the girth of John quickly. John presses on, easing his cock in, inch by inch. "You okay?" John exhales into the shell of Pietro's ear.

"Yeah," Pietro says, breathless.

John waits for Pietro to adjust to his thickness and then asks, voice strained, "Can I move?"

"Sì— _ah_ —Yes," Pietro moans, hissing slightly as John withdraws for the first time. He slams home with startling strength, making Pietro see stars as his body protests, pain shooting through him, fading with each thrust, steadily becoming a sharp, stabbing pleasure. John finds his sweet spot with the ease of a familiar lover and his cock grazes it time and time again as he thrusts in and out of him.

"John," Pietro gasps, "Mine—please touch _mine_."

John grunts an affirmative, strong hand sliding down to grip firmly at Pietro's hardened member. He jerks it haphazardly; touch no longer the gentle caress from earlier. His touches are desperate, hard. Pietro is close, he can tell by the way his balls begin to tighten and his whole body shutters. He comes hard at the same time John does, spilling his load between them. John's hips jerk as he continues to come, pulling gently from Pietro's ass. He collapses on top of the other man, their body's matching not only in size, but exhaustion.

"Pietro," John breathes, lifting up to brush Pietro's sticky mat of hair from his face. "I love you," he says fiercely, without doubt.

Pietro's heart stutters within his chest. "I'll be yours," Pietro whispers into John's hair, "and you'll be mine. _Al fine_."

" _Al fine_?" John mumbles softly into the sweaty curve of Pietro's collarbone. "What does that mean?"

Pietro hums, content for now. "To the end."

**Author's Note:**

> Italian translation:
> 
> soldatos - soldiers  
> capo - captain  
> buona sera - good evening  
> porco cane - fucking guy / pig dog  
> zoccolas - whores  
> cazzo - dick  
> buona notte - good night  
> amato - beloved  
> merda - shit  
> sborra - cum / come


End file.
